Sean was ten when it happened. It was a memory that he swallowed. Instead of passing through him, it became another heart. It was there, alert and active, with him always. He thought this obsession, his acceptance of his father’s worst moment along with his commitment to remembering it, was proof he loved Daddy most. Julia was appalled when Sean told her that theory one drunken Memorial Day. It had been a long and lazy weekend, so unlike how they usually spent their time. Sean had gotten too comfortable. Immediately after he spoke, he regretted it. Julia, it was apparent, had not kept the memory close. Instead, she had ejected it from her body like vomit, expelling all traces. The thought alone a poison. “Daddy most certainly did not try to kill us,” she said. “And it was Fourth of July, not Memorial Day so I don’t even know why you would bring this up now.” She was older, almost thirteen at the time. It was their dad’s weekend, and it was the first time Julia and Sean had been truly alone with him without Nana or Aunt Gemma popping in and out, dropping off casserole or leftover barbeque but really, keeping a watchful eye over them. Or maybe it had been an eye on him. Their mother had cheated, Daddy reminded them and anyone who would listen, and still, even though he would forgive her because he was a goddamn Christian and his vow to God had meant something, she still wanted out, so after fifteen years of marriage, he was living alone for the first time in his life. Within a matter of weeks, everything was decided. Nana’s summer house was meticulously maintained and she said he was free to move in and stay year-round. Not just until he got on his feet. Forever. It was his.

It’s not a book for summer. Despite the yellow checkered cover, Sally Rooney’s Intermezzo, which came out in September, is most certainly a winter book. The yellow is wrong anyway, not the yellow of sun, but instead tinged with a sickness, the checkered pattern alternating between subdued yellow and gray. Like a jaundiced hue, the cover blends in with the orange and marigold seats on the subway, configuration and color of a D train about to be defunct. Shortly after Intermezzo came out, my ex bought me a copy at Target. It was from the Brooklyn Target in Caesar’s Bay with a view of Coney Island on one side and the Verrazzano on the other. It was still warm, the waves outside the box stores lapping like summer. And I thought, how wonderful it must be to have every type of literary success. Rooney is equally displayed at indie bookstores, on the cool hotgirl IG pages, and also under the bright, antiseptically illuminated aisles of big box stores. But it took several attempts to truly commit to this book.